If You Don't Know Me By Now

‘No …’ She considered, not exactly sure what she’d been expecting. ‘Kind of thought you’d be a drummer in a band, or you’d be into UFC fighting. Something … dominant.’

His face brightened at that, blue eyes cheerful. ‘Nice! And I’m the bassist, thank you. Still very important. Less … dominant.’ His voice dipped in a way that made her stomach throb pleasingly.

‘You just seem really cool with who you are. Few people are so easy in their own skin.’ She tried to shrug it off, like she hadn’t been watching. Like she hadn’t been a little jealous of one more person who seemed to know how to be happy, how to fit in and be okay without wanting something more.

‘Oh, love. That’s an act, all an act. We’re all fucked up in one way or another. The only important thing is to know how, so we can fight against it tooth and nail.’

Imogen took a deep breath and looked around for customers. How had they even managed to have a conversation this long? It was unheard of.

‘That’s pretty true,’ she nodded, thinking it was truer than she’d like to admit.

‘But that’s a lesson for another day,’ he said softly, leaning into her space. ‘The question is, Imogen Cypriani, are you going to write something real today?’

Chapter Five (#ulink_2e12caed-d5fa-5d76-bfdd-73efd299e05b)

Cafe Disaster

What the people who make your coffee really think about you.

Welcome to the first instalment of the Twisted Barista Tales. I’ll be your coffee monkey for the evening. Join us on a mystical journey, from macchiatos to hot chocolate, from frapshakes to insanity. I’ll be identifying every fucking ridiculous thing you awful people do, so if you recognise yourself in these stories, it’s my obligation to let you know … you’re a dick.

Let’s begin.

There are many things that, as a barista, I am responsible for: your drink, my attitude, your experience, the constant sense of pointlessness. But things I am not responsible for include your bladder (it’s not my fault there’s someone in the bathroom), the weather (it’s not my fault you wanted a frapshake and now it’s raining outside) and our opening times.

I have had multiple responses when I say we’re closing. They’re usually indignant, sometimes they’re incredulous. Mostly, they can’t seem to fathom that I and my fellow baristas are, in fact, human beings with lives. It’s a bit like when you’re a kid, and it’s easier to believe that teachers go into a storage cupboard and plug in for the night, rather than accept that they have families and aspirations and sex lives. We only exist when they see us there. We only exist when we’re serving coffee. We don’t have homes to go to, or lives outside the coffee shop.

Example:

Customer: What time do you close?

Me: Six-thirty.

Customer: But that’s in five minutes!

Me: Yes, that’s why we told you we’re only doing takeaway cups.

Customer: That’s outrageous, I want to speak to the manager!

Me: Why?

Customer: Because you shouldn’t close at six-thirty, I have nowhere else to go now!

Firstly, your lack of a life is another one of those things that is not my problem. Secondly, the reason you have nowhere else to go is because every other coffee shop closes at the same time. So go bug them about it.

Another:

Customer: Why do you open so late on Sundays?

Me: We open at nine a.m., sir, and usually no one even comes in until ten, anyway.

Customer: Well, we were banging on the door for you to open, and you didn’t! We have to work in the MEDIA, we NEED you to be open for us! Plus, it’s really expensive, even with the discount you give us, so you should at least be open on time.

Me: We are open ON TIME, just the time that is dictated to us by our superiors.

Customer: Well, I’m going to phone your head office about this!

Firstly, this is a lie. Unless he was banging on the door at seven in the morning before any of the staff were even there – in which case, I must reiterate: get a life. Get a sense of adventure and invest in a cafetiere. Get a dog or something that can be forced to love you, regardless of what a horrible and simply stuck-up-media-whore-type person you are.

Why should we open earlier for you, when you are one person? One little person who occasionally comes in here, moans about the price, abuses the staff and generally treats everyone like they’re below you, just because you’re working on the latest series of Big Brother or whatever? Which, by the way, is now on Channel Five. So it’s basically gone to die, as I hope you do.

Other examples of closing-time fuckwittery?

Me: Sorry, we’re closing now, I really need you guys to drink up.

Customers: Well, if we leave, you won’t have any customers.

Yes. That’s the point. Fuck off.

Me: Sorry, we close in a few minutes.

Customers: That’s bloody outrageous. Screw you. *storms off*

Okay. Sure. Thanks for that customer input.

Me: Hi guys! Just to let you know, we’re closing in five minutes.

Customer: Well, we’re meeting someone here in twenty minutes.

Me: Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to meet them outside.

Customer: It’s not appropriate to meet people on the street. You can just stay open.

Oh, I’m so glad that forcing a company to stay open just for you is within accepted limits of propriety.

People suck. Here endeth the rant.

*****

Imogen took a deep breath and pressed ‘publish’. It was the first time she’d written since she moved to London. It was therapy. She was going to use all those horrible little people, force them into fiction, make people laugh. She was going to join the masses and become a blogger, use it for practice, get inspired. Connect to every twenty-something working a recession job and trying to make it in the big bad city. She was going to be a writer, no matter what. She was going to write something real.

Chapter Six (#ulink_164da487-ff13-5af8-bb13-dbb8e8b63992)

Emanuel tilted his head to the side, lips pursed as he surveyed her.

‘Something is different,’ he said with suspicion.

‘I trimmed my hair with nail scissors. It was a terrible decision, I know.’ Imogen rolled her eyes and focused on steaming the milk to exactly 94 degrees, or else the customer who was due to arrive in exactly forty-five seconds would be disappointed. Or royally pissed off and demand not only a remade drink but a freebie voucher. She could not afford to cost the store any more freebies this month. There was a chart and everything.